


3:46 AM

by justlikeabaroness



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Blood, Blood Kink, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Murder, Obsession, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 00:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8468290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeabaroness/pseuds/justlikeabaroness
Summary: I don't know what this was, but I kind of needed to write it. I swear I'm not like, homicidally mentally ill. Inspired in part by G-Dragon's "Window."





	

He's always preferred the quiet early-morning hours to the bustle of Seoul at peak traffic. It's cozier, darker and softer, giving him myriad shadows and hideaways to disappear into, and even when he hasn't done anything to warrant scrutiny, he prefers to hide.

Sehun is the first person in years to _really_ see him. Sehun sees everyone. Lu Han. Jongin. That's part of the problem. 

Sehun's not here now, though. He's alone with his thoughts, as is so often the case. He can see the sun trying to make its way over the grey, muggy blanket of clouds hugging Seoul like a widow lately, but thankfully, it seems defeated, at least for now. The night is better and less harsh; it's almost a cloud-cuckoo time when anything might be possible. Understanding. Respect. Love. Daylight hits him like a spotlight in the eyes; he'll wince and look down, as if to avoid the eyes of a schoolyard bully.

But he's getting away from himself. It's still night, for now, and he has a few more minutes with beauty. The floor of the apartment is awash in smears of dark red blood, pressed into patterns by gloved hands, joyfully finger-painting at the foot of the real marvel, the real work of art. The body is crumpled on the ostentatious brown suede couch, eyes fallen into resigned irritation at the cleaning bill that will no doubt result. The bare feet are caked in crimson, as if placed on a stamp pad by a bored secretary. The back of one ankle is resting in the curve of the opposite foot, with the arch nestled against a slashed Achilles tendon. One hand is splayed against a thigh, which is pivoting forward, weight low, as if telegraphing intent to lift the body to a sprinting position, but the outcome is visible for all to see.

He mouths the playground taunt, "down low, too slow," chuckling faintly at his own wit as he examines the handiwork. The genitalia are untouched, but the beautiful abdomen is a patchwork of shallow knife cuts, carving gibberish that coalesces into a number, a crude drawing, an animal, a name, anything the viewer might want to see and allow their brain to believe in. He has no objection to giving people what they want, unless it already belongs to him. 

It's the throat that is the work of art, the fascia exposed like those overwrought icons of Jesus with His heart exposed. The dead man is a Christian, after all. "This is my body," he mouths, "broken for you." He giggles at the solemnity, pressing a gloved hand to the slowly immobilizing muscle and tissue, closing his eyes as he swears he feels the life force ebbing, taking the color and the warmth into himself, watching creamy skin fade to parchment grey as he stands there, humbled.

He takes his hand back. It smells like blood and bile and everything he's ever shed over the years, ignored and shunned. Gently, he slides a finger past his pursed lips, tasting life and love and the tang of fear under the acrid scent of commercial rubber. He's not much for blood normally - everyone drinks blood; he prefers finer delights - but this is special.

A genteel, apologetic clap of thunder makes itself heard in the distance, and it begins to rain, the smell of petrichor mixing with the earthiness of the dead man's offerings to the howling, crazed gods of this world. It's a mix that makes sense to him, at least in passing; this dead man is not dust, and won't return to dust; he is a cog in a greater machine than the idiotic rituals of human frailty. 

He lingers, knowing what he wants to do, but knowing that taking that step means the dead man will truly be gone for good once it's completed. Yet his skin is tingling, and his brain is buzzing with deliciousness.

He takes off his belt, his trousers and sweater, folding them neatly over the back of a chair, careful to not allow them to touch blood. That's not what they're for. He keeps the rubber gloves and his boxer shorts on, though it pains him, and leans over the sofa, eyes fluttering closed as he lifts the leaden arms, pressing dead hands to his own cheeks, shivering as he feels an unruly stab of grief. It didn't _have_ to work out this way, but it's his own fault that it has. That will stay in his soul forever. 

He tries to will the rage away, though. It has no place here. Not when he's placing his gloved hands over the dead man's exposed throat, then pressing them to his own weak heart. Onlookers might think it crazy or dangerous, but it's like ashes; it's a reminder of everything he's done in service of making himself feel whole. He wears it happily, joyfully, though cautiously. 

Tears well up in his throat, but he stifles the sinner's weeping, instead shedding only a few tears into his bloody hands. He's regretful that this happened, but at the same time, this is pure relief. It's an unburdening, and he wants to allow himself to feel, but like so many places, it's not safe here. It's almost never safe for him to feel unreservedly - when he can, he tends to run the risk of drowning in his own pain, or leaving other people without a rock to lean against. But he can feel the light in his soul; this last gift, the dead man's repayment for his part in causing suffering. His apology, written in blood. It allows him to feel vindicated; to let go. 

He begins to dress again, but this time it's less heavy, less afraid, because he knows the dead man's absolution is with him. His itchy wool sweater now has a sticky undercoating, and it gives him strength, to know there will be madness and mistreatment, but he won't, for once, be alone. He laughs softly, hugging his arms around his own thin body, slightly fattened by the heavy autumn jacket. It almost feels like he has a friend with him. 

He knows he'll have to shower at some point, but he'll be able to smell the blood on him, even when he's scrubbed clean. It's a conscious choice. It's a memory and a load he'll willingly carry, to know the blood will always be on him, in him. He's always been a sanguine sort. 

He avoids the painting on the floor, stepping close to the sofa. There's a piece of plastic wrap in his pocket, and before he leaves, he presses it to his face, leaning in to catch the dead man's icy lips with his own, the thin layer between them still letting feeling through. He likes its practicality - he avoids leaving trails for scientific ghosts to find, as well as keeping a precious, fragile memory to love and cherish. Indeed, he folds the plastic in half, sliding it into his inner jacket pocket. The fact that it's over his heart is a pleasing symmetry. 

Maybe it will replace the heart he's lost, or the heart he ought to be cutting out of this worthless scum. 

But time is a factor; time, always time, schedules, minutes, regimented time. It's _time_ to leave. The cobalt blue rainy sky has begun to crack, showing fissures of technicolor instead of the soothing darkness. He checks around him, looking back at the dead man, looking for footprints, for smears where they ought not to be. He sees nothing - he's planned too well, dreamed too long. Shaking his head, he moves to go. The rubber gloves come off inside-out, carefully deposited into his shapeless rucksack. 

The last thing he does in the motionless flat, if only to let the life drain from it like blood from a wound, is open a window with his jacket sleeve. 

He closes the door with his jacket sleeve still over his hand, donning his face mask last, walking calmly to catch the lift. When it opens on the ground floor, Kim Joonmyun wonders if Sehun will hear of this. He wonders if somehow, he'll _know._ Somehow, he doubts it. 

He walks out of the building, toward the bus stop, as if daylight were his natural habitat. Maybe one day, he'll be strong enough that it will be.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this was, but I kind of needed to write it. I swear I'm not like, homicidally mentally ill. 
> 
> Inspired in part by G-Dragon's "[Window](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y3CSu20OSHI)."


End file.
